


DO I WANNA KNOW?

by bisexualbluesargent



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Car Sex, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, post-case 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualbluesargent/pseuds/bisexualbluesargent
Summary: “Stop playing dumb,” Makoto hissed. “I don’t want to,” he swallowed, “pretend to be your husband.”
Comments: 43
Kudos: 484





	DO I WANNA KNOW?

**Author's Note:**

> yes, like the arctic monkeys song.
> 
> i couldn't wait until case 4 came out to write this so. take it. gp fandom i'm here for u. we have fun here
> 
> tw: mentions of human trafficking, use of guns

Makoto was, at that moment, a bundle of sour, sour nerves, of simmering anger, of full-blown irritation. He wanted Laurent to know this, so he banged the doors of their cabinets shut while getting a glass of water, and he turned up the television too loud while Laurent and Cynthia were joking around in French, lounging on the couch, and he spilled his drink all over Laurent’s shirt on purpose with an _oops_ that Abby actually snorted at. 

Laurent looked at him, slowly. “A problem, Edamame?” 

“I don’t want to do it,” said Makoto, watching the patch of red on Laurent’s shirt crawl its way around the fabric. He smiled, smug, and Cynthia gave him a curious look. “I really am sorry about the wine. Do you want a paper towel?” 

Laurent’s expression had gone all shuttered, like he was upset; of course, Makoto didn’t know how to unpack this, but he didn’t have much time to think about it, anyway, because Laurent was getting up with a wide smile. “No, I’ll get it.” 

Makoto followed him into the hotel room’s kitchen, frowning. “I said I don’t want to do it.”

“You are such a crybaby.” Laurent dabbed at his shirt to no avail. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t like drugs,” said Makoto, leaning against the counter with a huff, “and I don’t like- I don’t-“ He couldn’t say it directly, didn’t know why he couldn’t get it out. He felt a blush blooming on his cheeks; everything was embarrassing, he thought, when he was alone with Laurent.

“You don’t like what?” Laurent blinked at him, grinning.

“Stop playing dumb,” Makoto hissed. “I don’t want to,” he swallowed, “pretend to be your husband.”

Laurent seemed concentrated on his stain-removal issue. “It’s only for a short while. And it’s the simplest, easiest part of this job.” He tilted his head at Makoto. “But we can always change our plans, if you’re… uncomfortable.” He managed to say the word in a certain way, implying something, something. Makoto narrowed his eyes.

“I just don’t get why it couldn’t have been Abby and me. Or Cynthia.” 

“Oh, so it’s the gay thing.” Laurent seemed amused by this.

“ _No,”_ said Makoto at once, too violently, probably. Laurent laughed. “No,” Makoto repeated, face still too hot, and Laurent was much too close even at a couple feet away and had a stray strand of hair covering his ear, a tease of flaws existing somewhere deep down and secret. Makoto didn’t like secrets, but Laurent’s were admittedly attractive, dangling in front of him for only for milliseconds at a time, like when Laurent couldn’t stop himself from giggling at something he said or when they finished a job and he looked satisfied, done with it. 

“No,” said Makoto, sighing. “You’re just fucking annoying.”

“Uh huh,” said Laurent, excited by this comment, for some reason.

Makoto rubbed at his temple. “Whatever, actually. We’ll just do it.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Laurent, turning to his shirt again, considering. “I don’t suppose you have some sort of idea on how to get this stain out?”

“Aw, sorry, what? The TV’s too loud,” Makoto said, walking towards Abby and Cynthia, who had been politely pretending not to hear the previous conversation. He felt- well, he didn’t know how he felt. And he had sworn, in prison, that he would from then on always know why he was doing what he was doing. 

“It’s Dolce and Gabbana,” Makoto heard Laurent say quietly, almost sadly, could almost hear his pout. He grinned despite himself. Abby shook her head at him.

—

“You couldn’t have gotten us two beds?” Makoto had known this was a mistake. He had. He knew to trust his gut- and his gut had said: nope, no, you’re not going to get matching, fake rings with this European man who touched your ass the first time you met and who constantly made fun of your accent. You are not going to do this.

“And if someone happens to come in?” Laurent was opening the curtains. “Better not to give anyone anything to think about.”

Makoto huffed as the sun spilled in, joyful, golden. It was late afternoon and the warm American sky seemed more welcoming than the one in Singapore, for now, at least. “I’ll probably mess it up, you know.”

Laurent half-turned to him in the light, teeth glinting. “Ah,” he said. “I doubt it.”

Makoto hid his flush by sitting on the bed, examining the sheets. “High thread count. Fancy.” He fluffed a pillow. Laurent seemed to be quite entertained.

Abby and Cynthia barged in, failing to knock because Abby was in the lead, face a lightning strike. Cynthia seemed to be in a good mood, though- she was singing something in French and taking Laurent’s hand to spin him around, laughing.

Makoto looked away, pursing his lips. “See? You two have more chemistry.”

Abby cackled darkly. “Ooh, he’s jealous.” Makoto frowned at her.

Cynthia laughed cheerfully, Laurent’s hand already far gone. Makoto stared at it, hanging at his side, until he realized he was doing it. Laurent watched him do it, too. Makoto decided to then only look at Cynthia, who had turned all casual, like she was hiding something. “We’d seem too fake, too cliche. And there’s the issue of the fact that I’d never actually touch this sleaze, even if he paid me.”

“Oh, even if I paid you?” Laurent leered, and Cynthia pretended to slap him.

“Plus, Edamame’s got that _inexperienced_ quality,” Abby said, like this meant something. She was opening and closing all the drawers in the room in succession, just to make noise.

Laurent and Cynthia nodded solemnly. Makoto gave them his worst look but it was too well received. “Fuck all of you. I’m going to check out the pool.”

“Have fun,” said Laurent, and it sounded too genuine, which just made Makoto angrier, so he slammed the door on the way out.

He fumed in the elevator and he fumed as he stepped outside in his collared shirt, feeling a sweat coming on. He fumed, too, when he saw that the pool was very nice but also full of people at this hour. He wanted to sit in the water and brood, thank you.

Makoto sat on the lounge chair in the most empty corner he could find, but didn’t lean back- he felt uncomfortable, tired, jet-lagged. He watched a couple splash each other in the pool, loud enough to turn heads. He could sense the man sitting a few chairs over side-eyeing him under Ray-Ban glasses, turning magazine pages under the lush embrace of a palm tree’s shadow. The trees here seemed fake to Makoto, but Cynthia had assured him that that was just how Florida was. Palms that seemed out of place because they were and weren’t. Planted by human hands for too little money on the lawns of five-star hotels like this one, to provide shade for men like that one. Makoto watched the fronds of the leaves shudder in the breeze. 

“Do you need something?” he said, finally, turning to look at the man on the chair nearby right after he had handed a kid their beach ball back, soaking wet. The kid had grinned at him, missing their two front teeth, and he’d smiled back.

The man jumped an inch or two, giving a broken laugh. “I was trying to figure out if you were the husband of Laurent- we’re making a deal together, yeah?” 

_Ah_ , thought Makoto. Their target. His accent was thick and honey-like, American in a way that Makoto had only seen in movies about men who owned cows and hit women. Laurent hadn’t told them - or Makoto, at least - about this job or what this man had done wrong, but it was probably bad. He didn’t seem like that sort of movie character, exactly: he was wearing a tropical shirt that managed to look fancier than the collared button-down Makoto had on.

Makoto gave him an uncertain smile. “Yeah. Just out getting some air.”

“Feel you on that one,” said the man, cheerful as he licked a finger to turn another page of Sports Illustrated. “You liking Florida so far?”

“Well, it’s sure making me sweaty,” said Makoto. The man laughed heartily.

“I like you, Japanese man,” he said. “I’m Barry, by the way.”

“Edamura,” replied Makoto, somewhat annoyed at being called “Japanese man”, but whatever. Florida. He supposed it was impressive that this man had guessed the country correctly, at least.

“Edamura,” repeated Barry, thoughtful. “Rings a bell for some reason.” A kid screeched from the direction of the pool, shooting a water gun. 

Makoto turned to look at him. “Does it.”

Barry glanced at his watch. “Well, we’ll probably talk more later. Your husband’s the one pulling all the strings here, right?”

Makoto guessed he was trying for a joke. He smiled. “Oh, yeah. I’m the trophy wife of this relationship. I’m here for the sun and the beach.” Barry thought this was very funny.

—

Makoto had been so caught up with the stress of having Laurent pretend to be his husband in public, around people, _oh God-_ that he hadn’t protested much when they had gone to get matching rings from fucking Tiffany’s. Like, really expensive ones. Well, he’d been aghast when he’d actually tried one on and the nice lady helping them had told them it cost _seventeen thousand goddamn dollars_ , but otherwise, he’d been pretty patient, considering.

“It’ll seem more real,” Laurent had said, voice low, only for him, sideways smile, hooded eyes. Makoto had stared at his finger, feelings red and burning and confused.

“But we really don’t have to go _this_ far,” Makoto had whispered sharply.

“Humor me,” said Laurent, jovial and charming, flicking at the ends of Makoto’s hair. Makoto had shaken his head, cursed at him, but had agreed to it in the end. 

A one-carat diamond, a simple, silver band- it wasn’t the most impressive ring ever. Probably. Makoto had honestly never held something so expensive in his hands for so long. He was weirded out. He sat in their shared hotel room in the dim light of a single lamp by the bed, waiting for Laurent to come back from Abby and Cynthia’s room ( _they_ had two beds, he thought bitterly). He imagined hurling the ring out the window, throwing it into their fake fireplace. _Why would anyone ever need a fireplace in fucking Florida,_ he thought, laying on their bed and staring at their ceiling, which was an expansive, pale white, nothing like the elaborately painted ceilings he had looked at in Europe at sunrise. Boring. The AC was on full blast. 

_I think I’ve become a brat,_ he sighed internally, turning the ring around between his fingers. _Laurent’s influence._

“Tired already, Edamame?” Laurent clicked the door shut behind him. 

“Tell me why people live here, of all places,” said Makoto, unwilling to answer this and rolling his eyes. “I went outside for five minutes and soaked through the shirt you bought me.”

Laurent peered at him appraisingly, like he was hoping to actually see something through Makoto’s shirt. “I was exaggerating,” said Makoto, kicking his legs in the air to hit Laurent with them, but he was too far away, of course.

“The pool was nice, at least?” Laurent was pulling off his shoes; Makoto watched him reveal slivers of ankle, pull off his socks.

“Sure. It was huge. Giant waterslides and shit. Rich people everywhere. You probably already know.” Makoto bounced his ring around in the palm of his hand, unable to stop fiddling with it. This was why he never wore rings, regularly. He’d lose them immediately. “Oh, and I met Barry.”

“A delight, isn’t he?” Laurent always seemed to be speaking in questions.

“I don’t know about that.” Makoto sat up. “What’s his deal?”

“You forgot everything I said on the plane, didn’t you?” said Laurent, amused. 

“I was sleeping, asshole.”

“Ah, yes,” said Laurent, like he didn’t remember Makoto accidentally falling asleep on his shoulder, an embarrassing moment among many, many others, Makoto thought. “It’s simple enough. We’ll get him to make this deal and clean his out his bank account for him while dismantling his entire empire. The usual. The biggest moves involve hacking his accounts and the like but you won’t be seeing much of that.” 

“Sure,” said Makoto, chewing at the inside of his mouth. “And he’s a target because…?”

Laurent was casually not looking at him. “Well, he’s involved in human trafficking.”

Makoto’s mind short-circuited. He closed his eyes.

Laurent glanced over. “I’ll do most of the work.”

Makoto wanted to scream into his pillow case. “You always pull this shit.”

Laurent was unbuttoning his shirt in front of the bathroom mirror. If you listened close enough, you could hear the waves of the beach visible from their balcony hitting the sand in the moonlight. “I don’t know what you mean, Edamame.”

“He said my name _rung a bell_ ,” hissed Makoto. “He knew my _father,_ huh?”

“It’s a possibility.” Laurent met his eyes in the reflection. 

“God,” said Makoto, fuming but unsure what to do, now that they were here in this hotel and among the unmoving air and the ocean, always the ocean. “I despise you.”

Laurent didn’t reply to this, only pulled his shirt over his head, staring at his reflection for a moment too long like Narcissus and his pool of water.

“Do that where I can’t see it,” Makoto snarled, picking up the notepad on the nightstand to scribble all over.

“Tomorrow you’re going to have to act more like my beloved, soybean.” Laurent had a ring hanging on a chain resting on his neck (and avoided all conversations about it, always, every time) and a couple freckles in a straight line along his spine. Makoto had seen this much of his skin before - Laurent enjoyed such hobbies as walking around naked before and after showers and changing in the living rooms of their rented houses - but had never been completely alone with it. Laurent looked at him in the reflection curiously. The night rolled over and yawned with the waves, like a lazy dog, and Makoto suddenly felt exhausted.

“Hmph,” he said, absently trying to remember where he put his toothbrush. “I’ll show you beloved.” Laurent darted at him an unreadable and strange sideways glance.

When Makoto emerged from his shower, Laurent was peacefully leafing through a copy of _One Hundred Years of Solitude._ He gave Makoto a kind smile; Makoto thought he knew him well enough to know that nothing nice from him was ever given, or even real.

“You probably think you’re so smart,” Makoto muttered, messing with the sheets and still standing. “Reading your stupid classic novels.”

“You got me,” said Laurent, almost bored, but chuckling nonetheless. “It’s certainly gotten you into bed with me.”

“Ugh,” said Makoto, plopping onto the bed in one quick motion, like this was just a situation to get over with. “I still don’t really see why we have to do the marriage thing. We could’ve just done the deal as some random rich guys.”

“Barry had two fathers,” said Laurent, gaze flitting over to Makoto and then turning back to his book. “He’s impartial to people like us. It never hurts to get on someone’s good side. We’re only doing this to distract him, really. Keep him occupied while we mess everything up for him behind the scenes.” Makoto stared at him in the lamp light.

“We spent that amount of money to _get on his good side?”_ Makoto wanted to punch him. “You’re actually insane. I’ve taken too long to come to this conclusion.”

“I think it makes me endearing.” Laurent dog-eared the page he was on.

“It really doesn’t. And that’s bad for the book.” Makoto tried to take the novel from him and make him lose his page, but Laurent held it off the side of the bed, amused. 

“I always enjoy our conversations,” said Laurent, setting the book on gleaming wood, turning a dial to turn down the lights, and there it was again- something sounding much too genuine, much too earnest for his mouth. 

Makoto didn’t like it. It made him uneasy. “I don’t.” He wished he had better comebacks.

—

Makoto didn’t wake up on top of Laurent or anything, for which he was very, very grateful- he remembered snippets of dreams in the morning that led him to take a long, cold shower when he woke up. He hadn’t remembered any faces from these dreams, only- well. It wasn’t worth analyzing, actually. He took his shower, washed his face, and slipped on bright pink flip flops that Cynthia was letting him borrow because he’d forgot to bring his own. The sun was shining, they were getting breakfast, things were amazing, incredible, cool.

Cynthia and Abby met them in the elevator, a morning person and, well, a not-morning person. “Ah, the two lovebirds,” said Abby, picking at a scab on her arm. Cynthia eyed her distastefully.

“That’s us,” said Laurent, tranquil. Makoto glared at him.

“I hope they have Froot Loops,” said Cynthia to Abby. “I love those tiny little plastic bowls of cereal they have at these hotel breakfasts.”

“You’re so fucking weird.” Abby was watching the floor number go down like she could intimidate it into being faster. Cynthia frowned.

“They’re cute,” agreed Makoto, thoughtfully. “They’ll probably have them.”

“See!” Cynthia said, delighted. Laurent happily fluttered his lashes at Makoto. He pretended not to see.

Laurent took his hand as they stepped out. Makoto tried not to act too surprised, but he descended into a coughing fit out of shock almost immediately. “Oh, dear,” said Laurent, eyes glittering like this was fun for him. “Let’s get you some water.” He took his hand again, but more gently. 

The breakfast area was fancy, more like a restaurant but still casual; Cynthia and Abby sat down at a table with a strawberry and blueberry muffin, respectively. Cynthia had indeed found Froot Loops. 

“Here,” said Makoto, trying to pass Laurent a full plate as he came back from the water station. Laurent blinked at him and then the plate. “God, just take it. It’s all the stuff you like.”

Laurent took the plate and looked at it some more. “Eggs. Scrambled. Thank you.”

Makoto looked at him, annoyed. “You get the same thing at every hotel we’ve been to. I’m just being nice. You got me water.”

“Yes, I did,” said Laurent, with a strange expression. “I’ll go sit down.”

Makoto frowned at him. “Okay, weirdo.” He finished piling hash browns onto his own plate with a huff. 

Laurent waved him over to their table, like Makoto hadn’t already seen where they were sitting. He was beaming at him and kissed him on the cheek when they sat down. Makoto knocked over the cup of water Laurent had gotten him and it managed to spill all over every single napkin. Abby and Cynthia didn’t even move to help him clean it up, just watched it all with bored expressions. People were looking over and everything. 

“ _Sweetie_ ,” said Makoto, forming his smile into a dagger, “a little warning, next time?”

“For a kiss on a cheek?” Laurent peered at him innocently, his own smile a different sort of weapon.

“He really is a virgin,” said Cynthia, aghast.

“Oh my God.” Makoto put his head in his hands as Abby sneered. “Enough. I forgot who I was fucking talking to.”

“Hm,” said Laurent, slinging an arm around Makoto’s neck. “Want me to feed you that sausage?”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Wait until we’re gone, thanks.” Makoto really hoped he wasn’t beet red, that his face wouldn’t betray him- but he couldn’t trust anyone, not in this line of work.

Barry was sitting with a couple other guys on the other side of the room. He gestured them over as they walked by. Makoto felt waves of anger at this man - _they were always going for the most horrible people, weren’t they_ \- and could barely look at him. Luckily, Barry seemed to be telling Laurent something, completely ignoring his supposed partner. Makoto processed a few words - sauna, deal, husband - but couldn’t focus on something other than his shoes and his laces and the intricate, outdated carpeting on the ground. Too colorful. 

Cynthia and Abby were watching him quizzically as they threw away their trash. He shook his head at them. “We’ll meet you back up on our floor,” he said with a cheerful smile. He was afraid, in fact, that he would somehow look over at Barry and see the face of his father. 

Laurent gave Makoto a peck on the cheek. “Darling, shall we go?”

Makoto glared at him. He wasn’t in game mode. They usually had scripts, practice time, but Laurent had just told him to be himself. Makoto hadn’t thought he would be so into it; he certainly wasn’t yet willing to unpack why he was just letting Laurent do this, anyway, but he was sure it would come later. His mind had a way of pushing him into mental crisis at the worst of times. “Go where, babe?” 

Laurent’s smile grew wider, and he laughed with Barry, like this was funny, like everything was a big joke. “Failing to listen as usual, love. Mr. Moore has a sauna room rented out and offered to let us use it for a bit, what do you say?”

Makoto felt his muscles tense with every silent h and growled r that Laurent’s accent permitted. “Sure. Sweetie _.”_ He was tired of the pet names but liked seeing Laurent twitch. He reached his hand down to brush over the back of Laurent’s jeans. “I would just _love_ to.”

Laurent’s expression was unwavering; Makoto searched his eyes for any reaction, anything at all, but he was quite good at this. Obviously. A true confidence man. When they walked down the hotel hallways with Barry and his good-natured, well-dressed men, they lingered a few steps behind, Laurent saying nothing but almost breathing down Makoto’s neck with how close he was, fingers intertwined with Makoto’s, not too tight, but certainly not gentle. _Ah,_ thought Makoto, unsettled, but feeling his heart rate increasing. _Okay._

Makoto decided he hated Barry, actually. Barry talked about everything in vague statements and never really said the words outright. It became apparent that he had a lot of money. Makoto just smiled and stared at the sweat forming around Laurent’s shoulders. They were all wearing towels, and the deal was boring, uneventful (Laurent would meet them alone at a later date for an exchange of information), but Makoto found himself turning over Laurent’s words, again and again. _It’ll be fun, it’ll be fun._ Laurent had waited two years for him, hadn’t he. Had created a whole job for him as a mechanic. Makoto started looking for explanations. Started getting a bit worried about the whole thing, about where his life had taken him this time. It seemed… never-ending.

The trail of sweat down Laurent’s neck, suddenly sliding down his chest- it was never-ending.

“Well, I’ll let you two have some privacy,” said Barry amiably, getting up and adjusting his towel. All the towels here were embroidered with the hotel’s name. Makoto tried very hard not to frown at him. “Feel free to stay in here as long you want, I got it for the day.” Barry had the audacity to look sheepish, kind, and friendly, and Laurent had the audacity to act like he was charmed by it.

In the emptiness that came after Barry had shut the door behind him, Laurent leaned back and closed his eyes. Makoto studied him warily.

“Is this a game to you?” he said, finally, after thinking about the best way to phrase it in English.

“What is?” Laurent said, opening one eye to look at him like a sleeping dog suddenly on alert, or a wolf, Makoto thought, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that was the saying, wasn’t it?

“Fine,” said Makoto. “We won’t talk about it.” What he couldn’t understand was why Laurent was waiting so long to make a move. Why Laurent thought it easier to create elaborate heists instead of just ask him out for dinner. Maybe it’s because he would say no. _Yeah_ , thought Makoto, uncertain, _I’d probably say no._

Laurent hummed, like this was good with him. He shifted slightly under his towel, spread his legs just a little, and that’s all Makoto needed, apparently, to get flushed and half hard under his towel.

“Edamame,” said Laurent, lowly, eyes closed again now, and Makoto couldn’t resist watching him stretch just a hint more and bare his neck, “I can write you a script or something, if you’d like. If this is too strange. But don’t be nervous. We both know this isn’t a big deal.”

“I’m not _nervous._ ” Was Laurent that starved for excitement that he’d go through all this just to rile up Makoto? Rile himself up? Makoto leaned back and scoffed at him. “No,” he said. “I’ve decided I’m going to be the best pretend husband that you could ever find.”

“You _have_ always enjoyed a bit of friendly competition,” breathed Laurent, faint smile, moist lips, and Makoto had to stop himself from going over and pulling the towel off and giving him a real surprise, just to see his fucking face when he did so. 

_—_

Makoto wasn’t exactly a party person. He hadn’t been to a lot of parties, really. He knew that didn’t give him a lot of cool points in the eyes of his comrades, because that sort of thing was something you smelled on a person and noticed in their mannerisms when they _did_ go to a party, but he didn’t care much. He wasn’t living for cool points. Even when he was scamming people alone, he had been doing it for the fucking _money._

Laurent, he thought, was probably living for cool points. 

Laurent liked to stroll around and shake hands and grin with his teeth. Makoto didn’t like smiling with his teeth if he could help it. Laurent liked to pat the hands of ladies and stage-whisper things about Makoto to flirt with him or whatever, and Makoto liked to stand there and brood, but this wasn’t about what Makoto liked, so Makoto spent a lot of the night with his arms around Laurent’s. Laurent was quick to put his hands on the small of Makoto’s back or on his waist, like they were in a period piece film about European royalty. Makoto didn’t know what to think, or how he was supposed to feel, but this wasn’t new. Makoto didn’t like surprises, but Laurent obviously wanted to marry them.

Makoto came back with champagne at one point, gently pushing others out of the way to reach Laurent. He had been stopped by a nice girl with nice hair and very loud friends but he hadn’t reciprocated any advances. He didn’t know why. If he had been a few years younger he would’ve loved the attention.

“Why, thank you, mon chou,” said Laurent brightly, slender fingers wrapping around the neck of the glass. Makoto was unclear whose party this was and why there was champagne, but Abby and Cynthia seemed to be having fun doing shots over to his left, so. Whatever.

“De rien.” Makoto took a small sip of champagne and stepped back a little as a splash of water from the pool almost reached him. 

“I just love it when he speaks French,” said Laurent conspiratorially to the girl next to them, who giggled. 

Makoto tilted his head at him, wishing he could see if he was flushing under his clothes. “Oh, I know you do.” He had an idea. “Let’s go for a swim?” He pushed Laurent into the pool and watched him laugh, like, really laugh, and then pull Makoto’s leg until Makoto jumped in, too, displacing a bunch of people with floaties and actual swimsuits on. Makoto tried to shove Laurent under the water so he couldn’t breathe; Laurent came back up, spluttering, still laughing, somehow. Makoto thought, bitterly, that he looked nice in the fluorescent lighting.

After they had snatched some unused towels from a nearby seat, Makoto patting at his hair sourly because he had actually liked how it looked that day, Laurent had let out a suave but chummy “Ah, there’s Johnny”. Makoto remembered him from the sauna: a medium-height, handsome guy who talked like how California felt, at least to Makoto.

Johnny laughed. “Having fun, dudes?” His flip-flops were swishing through the cleanly shaven grass. They were in the part of the pool area that was darker, quieter, with out-of-season flowers lining the edges of the minimalist-style fences.

“Yes,” said Makoto, interjecting, embracing Laurent from behind and batting his lashes. “We’re having a great time.”

Johnny, surprisingly, winked at him. Makoto smiled back, all teeth. Laurent brushed his fingers against Makoto’s sleeve, but only for a moment, like he couldn’t help himself. Makoto suddenly thought about running his tongue down Laurent’s neck, and then almost felt scared at the abruptness of it. Instead he breathed against his ear, “C’mon, dearest husband. I’m tired. Let’s go to our room.”

Laurent shifted just slightly. “He wants to go back upstairs, I’m afraid.”

“Mind if I join you two?” Johnny said, and Makoto almost laughed.

“Oh, no, thank you. We certainly appreciate the offer,” said Laurent breezily, and Johnny waved them off. 

“I’m drunk,” he said. “Sorry if that was weird.”

“You’re fine,” said Makoto, feeling great because Laurent had just kept smiling, not even answering.“Have fun in the pool.”

They were quiet in the elevator. For some reason, the request had put Laurent on edge, and Makoto could see it. A thrill went through him at Laurent’s frown. He rarely frowned. Makoto had always been a lightweight- he’d taken a shot with pressure from Abby earlier and it had started to get to him. His brain was full of fantasies of Laurent pressing him against the elevator door and giving him a handjob and then fucking him in their shared bed as soon as they got to their floor. He made sure to stand in the far corner of the elevator so as not to do something reckless like reach out and touch Laurent’s hair or run his hand under his still-damp shirt. 

“You’re forever bad at holding your liquor,” said Laurent, still able to be faintly, faintly amused.

“Yeah, well,” said Makoto, shaking a finger at him. “You’re bad at hiding your jealousy.”

Laurent crossed his arms. “Jealousy is quite healthy for long-term relationships.”

Makoto cackled at him. “You’re fucking jealous. You actually want me-“ he swayed his arm in Laurent’s direction- “to fuck you or something. You actually _wanna_ be my husband.” He felt satisfied with this conclusion, with saying it. 

“Oh, really,” said Laurent, mouth twitching, something satisfied in him, too, it seemed.

“Yes, yeah,” said Makoto, nodding. “I think you’re a coward, Laurent Thierry. A coward.”

Laurent looked at him for a long minute. “Do you.”

“Mhmm,” said Makoto, drawing the word out and leaning against the rail along the wall. The elevator was lined with mirrors; there were a hundred Makotos moving in time with him. He waved at them but felt his stomach turn over a bit. He tried to ignore it. “You never want to call me by my real name. Fucking- fucking coward.”

Laurent sighed, almost sad. “Perhaps I am.” Makoto threw up all over his nice, expensive shoes.

—

“Is Barry-the-asshole paying for dinner tonight?” Cynthia was pulling on some elaborately strapped sandals with violence.

“He better,” said Abby, adjusting a shoulder strap.

“What exactly are you two in this narrative, anyway?” Makoto tried to flatten the back of hair to no avail. “Are you married too?” Cynthia seemed slightly jarred by the question, probably because she didn’t know he was looking. Interesting.

“He’s paying.” Laurent watched them all from the bed, already dressed and everything. He’d planned out his time, evidently. Makoto had seen him serenely combing his hair an hour earlier. Always one step ahead, the fucker. “And they’re our friends, soy bean. No acting required, really.”

“Aw, we’re his _friends_ ,” cooed Cynthia, Abby rolling her eyes.

“Yes, you are,” Laurent replied, unbothered, crossing his legs and exhaling. “I hope we’re eating seafood. I could die for some shrimp right now.”

“Every time we get sushi you hate it,” said Makoto, searching the drawers for hair gel. Laurent had to have some. The man would fix his hair before he went to _sleep._

“That’s different,” said Laurent somberly.

Abby snorted. “He’s just a snobby, horny French bitch.”

“I resent that,” said Laurent, smiling at her.

“I’d hope so,” said Cynthia. 

“We’d make a great sitcom,” added Makoto thoughtfully. “Or a reality show.”

Cynthia pointed at him, excited. “We’d make it big on TLC, I know.”

Laurent poked at Abby’s backside- she was looking for her other shoe near the bed. “This one would get us sued.” She slapped Laurent’s hand with no visible remorse; he simply laughed.

Makoto didn’t get those two, didn’t get any of them, but that was how life worked, as far as he could tell. You got close to people through shared experience. In his case, it was always some crazy event. You didn’t get to plan it. He wished, though, that Laurent would stop trying to convince himself he could be the one to map it out for all of them. He went to sit next to him on the bed to think. Laurent looked back at him curiously.

“Already in the husband zone,” said Abby, watching them with disgust.

“I think it’s cute.” Cynthia pouted at her. “Qui sait, peut-être qu’on n’aura plus à regarder Laurent se languir de son béguin.”

Makoto only caught a few words and didn’t like them. “Stop talking in French around me.”

“She said you two should just fuck already,” said Abby bluntly, throwing a pillow at him.

“That’s not-“ said Cynthia, almost nervously, Laurent just laughing, always laughing, Makoto hated it, he kind of agreed with Abby and was terrified that he did.

—

Makoto had done a lot of thinking, listening to Laurent’s breathing, careful not to brush up against his leg or his arm or anything worse in the night. He had realized, then, that he had agreed to get the stupid fucking ring and do this stupid fucking con because he had wanted to. Because Laurent had asked and he had decided to say yes. Everything else was a blur.

Laurent was always asking, wasn’t he? He was always asking for something without saying anything at all. Makoto had realized this, too, as a lone siren sailed past their window, a rarity in this resort-filled city, a reminder of things they were pretending didn’t exist as they jumped into their indoor and outdoor pools and their curtained bath-tubs. They hadn’t even gone to the beach yet.

The dining area was dark, elegant, with just enough windows. White flowers were carefully placed in glass vases on every table. The chandeliers didn’t have a speck of dust upon them. Makoto, however, had stopped being surprised by money. He wasn’t really impressed. Six hundred dollars a night for mahogany tables- okay, sure.

Makoto was wearing a suit Laurent had bought him, but he was mostly thinking about the ring. Every night he would take it off and stare at it on his bedside table. He was a fucking fool. 

“Come and sit down,” said Barry from the table, waving his glass at them. Makoto watched the movement, annoyed.

“We’re coming,” said Laurent cheerfully, nudging Makoto into the seat next to him. Cynthia was launching into a conversation with Johnny and some other woman; Abby was frowning at the menu.

“I can order for you, dear,” said Laurent, watching Makoto mimic Abby’s expression.

“I know how to use a fucking menu,” muttered Makoto, flipping the laminated pages. The graphic design could’ve been better. 

“I know, I just like to do it,” said Laurent, giving that smile that always made people uneasy. Nobody was meant to be comforted by it- it was more like, _oh, he finds this funny. He must like me._ Makoto didn’t like it at all. He didn’t want to have to impress this man, but he always ran around trying to do it, of course. _You have always enjoyed a bit of friendly competition._

“If you order any sort of edamame, I’ll pretend to divorce you,” sighed Makoto, closing the menu. 

“Aw, my love, I’ll refrain only this once.” Laurent tilted Makoto’s head up towards him to peck his lips, but Makoto was feeling-

On edge. A buzz, humming beneath his skin, he knew it well, remembered feeling it most that day he had followed Laurent to Los Angeles and took his shirt in fistfuls inside his car. It was the part of him he didn’t like, because it made him reckless, easily excitable. It was the part of him that liked to show off. It was the part of him that liked doing- 

All this.

Makoto gave Laurent a gentle tug towards him, deepening the kiss. Using his tongue. Somehow, it felt familiar, like he really had done this with him, years ago and for years after. He should’ve been unsettled. Instead, he placed his hand on Laurent’s thigh without really thinking about it.

“We’re in public, dear,” said Laurent in his ear, pulling back and side-eyeing the rest of the table. No one really seemed to care what they were doing, save for Abby and Cynthia, who were raising their eyebrows in their direction in between conversation about the weather. Laurent, at least, looked a tad taken aback, and Makoto wanted more of that, actually, he wanted to see Laurent shaken. Angry, maybe. He didn’t know.

Makoto slid his hand just slightly up Laurent’s thigh. Laurent didn’t move. “Who cares?” Makoto was smiling, now. With teeth.

Laurent studied him. “Well, we can’t exactly fuck under the table before solidifying this date, Edamame.”

Makoto sniffed at his crassness. “We can do anything we want.” He leaned back, removed his hand. “You _are_ the boss, right?”

Laurent adjusted his tie - which didn’t need adjusting - and laughed softly. He inserted himself into Barry’s conversation. Makoto frowned at him, shifting in his own seat.

“There’s a place on Scott Road,” Barry was saying in a low voice, “that we can meet at this Thursday night. Sound good to you?”

Laurent took a sip of his drink. “Sounds perfect.”

Makoto looked at both of them, one hand gripping the edge of his seat.

“Another couple million in the bag, huh?” A man next to Barry clinked his glass in camaraderie. Makoto hated them.

Laurent laughed quietly. “Enjoy it, won’t you?”

—

Makoto thought a lot about places, and about their hallways. 

The hallways here were wide, well-lit, looked like stock photos of what a five-star hotel should be, with chairs placed pristinely along the walls alongside tropical plants in round, large pots. The plants looked almost plastic, and the floors were always very, very clean. Makoto was reminded of the hallways of the hospital his mother had been in- not a speck of dust, either. He’d seen the janitor one early morning, had said hello. Had wondered, then, why the world decided it was okay for there to be people on one side cleaning the floors and people on the other, running down it with dirty shoes and soaking wet flip flops. He didn’t know. He supposed he was doing his part in tearing all that down. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

The hallway, now, was empty, a little foreboding, the silence of it making him uneasy. He’d left his ring on their dining table. He’d been fidgeting with it too much, of course. Had put it down without even noticing. He got back to the dining room, explaining to a hotel worker what was going on, when the woman who had been sitting next to Cynthia spotted him from across the room and waved him over. The ring was in her hand.

“Wow, thank you,” said Makoto, taking it from her before she could speak. 

“I saw it when we were all going to leave,” she said, too friendly for Makoto’s comfort. Her hair was in tight curls all around her head. 

“Well, I appreciate it,” he said, scratching his arm. “I never caught your name-“

“Talia,” she said, laughing. “I’m going back up to our room, too, we can walk together.” 

“Sure, yeah,” said Makoto. Maybe people were actually just nice sometimes. She probably wasn’t too great considering what was going on behind the scenes, though. Makoto had to remind himself of this.

Talia told him about her boyfriend, making some slyly snide comments that suggested she wasn’t happy with his behavior. She told him about Florida, about their group’s cocaine binge yesterday. Loads of fun. _Typical stuff_ , Makoto supposed, clicking the elevator button. 

“Oh!” said Talia sunnily. “I’m on the same floor.” 

Makoto smiled. “Fate.”

Talia looked at him for a moment too long. “Yeah, right?”

On their floor, Talia crowded him against the wall and tried to kiss him.

“I’m married,” said Makoto, very embarrassed by this whole situation. If he ever got a real wedding ring, he was screwed. He’d have to glue it to his hand or something.

“He won’t mind.” Talia was going for his neck. “I mean, we’re just having fun, yeah?”

“Too much fun, one might say,” said Laurent, who was suddenly near them, hands casually in his pockets.

Talia flushed. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” said Laurent, winking at her. It wasn’t a nice thing.

“Do you-“

“No,” said Makoto, brushing himself off. “Just go and break up with your boyfriend, Talia. God. Thanks for finding the ring.”

Talia blushed even redder. “Sure, yeah, okay. Bye.” She bounded down the hall, the clack of her heels too loud on the wooden floor.

Laurent and Makoto didn’t say anything for a minute. 

“You could have,” said Laurent at last. His face was arranged into the dictionary definition of unbothered. “It wouldn’t have messed anything up.”

“I know that,” said Makoto haughtily. “Sorry I don’t fuck everything that moves.”

Laurent got closer to him. “Don’t apologize for _that,_ Edamame.” His perfect teeth were reflecting the light above them. Another drawn-out, silent moment slid by.

“Are you jealous?” whispered Makoto before he could stop himself. He shouldn’t have said that. The other night, when he was drunk, he felt a little bad-

“Yes,” said Laurent, and Makoto stared at him, shocked. “Very.” Laurent’s breath was ghosting over Makoto’s cheek, Makoto’s back was against the wall-

“Let’s go for a drive,” Makoto said suddenly, voice wavering, eyes on Laurent’s lips. 

Laurent pulled back, pleased. “Whatever you like.”

—

Laurent had rented a car with leather seats. It reeked of money and cleaning products. Laurent had laughed at Makoto’s look of distaste.

“Got to play the part, you know,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I don’t understand why you’re still looking at me like that. We drove this to get here on the first day.”

“I know, I just hate how yellow it is.” Makoto pretended to spit on him.

Laurent maneuvered the car along highways and then through neighborhoods and then, finally, roads meandering along the shore. Makoto stared at the black expanse of the ocean, a giant nothing on their left side. “We should go to the beach,” he said, his thoughts really full of nothing, too, except the thought of Laurent’s hands all over him, his mouth on his cock. 

“I think so too,” said Laurent. He seemed lost in thought, which was weird, but Makoto had stopped trying to dig deep for Laurent’s past. He figured Laurent would tell him sooner or later. Or never. That was the worst case scenario. Makoto stretched out in his seat to see if Laurent would notice his shirt, unbuttoned just a fragment. Laurent did cut a sideways glance towards him for a sliver of a second, before moving his fingers against the steering wheel, licking his lips just enough that Makoto saw.

Makoto wanted control, he wanted Laurent to see him want it.

“Pull over,” said Makoto softly. “When you can.”

Laurent opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw that Makoto was putting his hand over his, leaning over to kiss his neck. His breath hitched a little, too, when Makoto took his fingers into his mouth, and sucked.

“Edamura,” breathed Laurent, lashes fluttering, “I’m still driving.”

“Then pull over already. I told you,” Makoto said around his fingers, taking smug note of the name change.

Laurent was hard in his pants by the time they parked at a beach lookout; Makoto could see it. Could see that Laurent was slightly ruffled. This was something exciting. His heart was pounding, agreeing with him.

“Move your seat back,” said Makoto, kissing Laurent’s palm, slowly.

Laurent didn’t say anything, he just did it. He was smiling.

When Makoto was settled on his lap, he kissed Laurent, and this time it wasn’t gentle, it was too much, it was Laurent’s hand pulling Makoto’s neck towards him, fingers pressing into flesh, Makoto groaning quietly as Laurent moved both hands down to grip at his ass, slot his legs around his. It was all too cramped, too hot, but Makoto still hissed when Laurent gently bit his shoulder, squeezing his ass again.

“Fuck,” said Makoto.

“Yeah?” said Laurent, voice kind and thick. “How long have you wanted this?”

A strange question to ask, Makoto thought, but he liked it. “Too long.” Laurent shuddered.

Makoto placed kisses on Laurent’s cheek, his forehead. Ran fingers through his hair with satisfaction. Laurent whined, a small sound that was going to drive Makoto insane.

“Tell me,” said Makoto, unable to resist, “what you want to do to me.”

“Where do I even start,” exhaled Laurent, happy to oblige. “Everything. Anything.”

“So corny,” said Makoto, fake pouting. Laurent whined again. “Take your dick out, _baby._ How about that.”

Laurent groaned, unzipping his pants. “Edamura. You’re going to kill me.”

“Makoto,” Makoto corrected. “That’s my name, isn’t it?” He ran a finger up and down Laurent’s cock through his briefs.

“Yeah,” said Laurent. Makoto’s pants were getting too tight. “Makoto.” 

Makoto spit in his hand and slid it around Laurent’s shaft. “We’re going to go back to the hotel after this, and you’re going to fuck me on our bed,” he said, licking at Laurent’s ear. Laurent was fumbling with Makoto’s zipper and even that amount of touch was making him crazy. “Okay?”

“Yeah, please,” said Laurent, tone skewed toward begging, and Makoto moaned when he pressed a finger against the slit of his cock.

“Fuck, how about- your mouth-“ Makoto was incomprehensible, any semblance of control gone. He wasn’t capable of doing anything other than rutting against Laurent’s hand.

“Of course,” said Laurent hazily. “Backseat.”

“Oh,” said Makoto. “Oh,” he said again, pressed in an uncomfortable position in the back of the car with Laurent’s mouth around his cock. He grabbed some of Laurent’s hair. “Oh my fucking _God.”_

Laurent hummed, licking at his tip, swirling his tongue around. 

“I’m going to-“ Makoto pressed his arm against his forehead, unable to keep in a loud moan. “Laurent-“

Laurent slowly pulled off of his cock. “Not yet,” he said, giving him another lick, making Makoto shake. 

“Please,” said Makoto, reaching down for his cock with his hands, he was so close, he just wanted to-

Laurent took his hands in his, lightly kissing the backs of them. “What do you want, mon coeur?” Laurent was flushed, hair all messed up, but still so smug, like he knew, he knew that Makoto _liked_ it.

“Make me cum,” whined Makoto. He didn’t want to think about how he sounded right then. It was all too much.

“Oh, Makoto,” purred Laurent. “Whatever you want.” He started out slow, again, sucking his cock with triumphant theatricality, speeding up until Makoto was unsure where he was. 

“You didn’t have to swallow,” said Makoto, somewhat amazed despite himself.

Laurent wiped at his mouth, prim and measured. “I enjoy doing so, _Makoto._ ” Makoto stared at Laurent’s cock, still hard and still very _there._ “Come here.” Makoto sat on his lap and Laurent ground against his ass for a minute until he came, a satisfied, too-loud moan that Makoto shouldn’t have enjoyed as much as he did.

_—_

Laurent kissed him when they were at the stoplight, and when they were parked at the hotel. He kissed him against his car and then against the elevator wall, and Makoto was already hard again by the time they got back to their room, Laurent taking every opportunity to slow them down by tugging Makoto towards him to shove his tongue in his mouth and whisper things in his ear. Makoto should’ve figured it would be like this. He certainly hadn’t imagined it or anything.

Laurent was pressing him into their bed. “Makoto,” he said, voice low, their dicks getting tiny amounts of friction between their layers of clothing. 

“Mhm,” said Makoto, spreading out below him. “You going to make good on your promise?”

Laurent all but growled in his ear. “Darling. Who do you take me for?” He was kissing Makoto’s chest.

Makoto hadn’t been with a lot of men, or a lot of people in general (a surprise, he knew), and he was honestly a bit nervous. He couldn’t tell if Laurent actually spent his time fucking everyone he met or if it was just part of the show he liked to put on.

“I’m not as experienced,” he started to say as Laurent pressed his thumb into his thigh.

Laurent looked up at him. “Oh, Edamura. Don’t worry about that.” His traced circles into his skin.

“I’m not worried,” snapped Makoto. “I just wanted to let you know.” He left some conversational space open for Laurent to elaborate on his own sex life.

Laurent noticed, and for a second, Makoto thought he was going to ignore it. “Makoto,” he said seriously. “I don’t want anyone else but you.”

“Really?” Makoto leered at him. This was all very unsettling.

“Yes,” said Laurent, expression unchanging. “I’m yours, mon ange.”

He knew that one. “I’m not a fucking angel,” said Makoto sourly, but Laurent leaned down to suck the skin below his jaw. 

Later, Makoto looked at Laurent. The night had curled in on itself and was threatening to burst back out as morning. He felt the sunrise approaching in the way that you could always feel it, if you paid attention: the ocean seemed to be yawning, the seagulls outside were getting restless: yes, morning, yes they’d stayed up, most of the night, Makoto’s throat raw where Laurent’s cock had pressed against it.

“I just don’t want you to…” He didn’t want to finish, actually. Vulnerability was scaring him. His adrenaline rush was gone; he was eager to analyze everything they’d done, to find a hole to hide in until he knew he could protect himself better. He thought of the ring that Laurent had chosen. _This is not real_ , he thought. _This was a game._

“To what?” Laurent’s gaze from the sink where he was washing his hands was unreadable.

“To get bored now that you have what you wanted,” said Makoto, finally.

Laurent stared at him. “Makoto.”

“Whatever. I mean, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Laurent turned off the tap. “Why are you-“

“Are we going to be able to return the rings after?” 

Laurent’s face suddenly boarded itself up. “Of course,” he said, no expression. “If that’s what you want.”

Makoto didn’t understand this response completely. He wanted something more from Laurent, but he couldn’t picture it. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Laurent.” He wanted to press himself against him, when they were both in bed, pretending to sleep, but he didn’t. Laurent had given him that smile, when he turned off the lights, the same one he always did. He didn’t know.

_—_

Makoto went to the beach, at last, but he went alone.

The afternoons here were borderline unbearable, with the temperatures going past thirty-five degrees celsius, most days, and the sun beating down with unabashed enthusiasm. Kids were digging holes in the sand leading from the water, building trenches, castles, cities, palaces, piles of dirt. Makoto missed being a kid. You could make piles of dirt all the time and people would applaud and give you ice cream.

He may have messed up, pushing away Laurent at the last minute. He’d thought about this over an awkward breakfast with the whole group, Laurent reading a newspaper and not really touching him at all. They’d been out of creamer and sugar and Makoto had had to drink his coffee black, _a fitting punishment_ , he’d agreed. 

Abby had watched his grossed-out expressions with amusement, then pulled him aside quickly into the hallway. “Trouble in paradise?” Her voice was monotone, mocking. Makoto was touched.

“Uh, no,” he said, trying to run away, but she grabbed his forearm with ultra-fast reflexes.

“Laurent is actually terrified of you leaving, you know,” she said, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m not going to leave,” Makoto said, quiet.

“Then let him know that,” she said. “He’s pretty stupid. He’s just going to keep getting you jobs at sushi shops and shit until you say something outright.”

“Why doesn’t _he_ just say it?” Makoto wanted to cry with frustration. Abby didn’t laugh at him, for once, but he knew she noticed. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Like I said,” Abby let go of his arm, leaned against the wall. “He’s terrified.”

Makoto watched the tiny birds skitter around in the sea foam. He watched a kid get chased by his father. He sat on the sand, tired.

“Fuckface,” a voice said in greeting. Abby was running up to meet him.

“What?” Makoto didn’t like that he answered to that, now.

“We had to move all our plans up to right now. C’mon, let’s go.” She pushed him towards the hotel.

“Okay, okay,” he said, glancing at the horizon and the sun resting on it. A boat was speeding by and making the waves rush up against the shore; the kids were screaming in delight. “It’s not bad, is it?” Abby just looked at him.

—

Makoto didn’t take the gun that Laurent tried to hand him. They were in a wide alley out past the suburbs, next to abandoned car maintenance garages and warehouses. The billboards by the road were peeling off, drooping low like the palms from the hotel. There were no palms here. _Watch out for alligators,_ Cynthia had said cheerfully on their way there. Florida, Florida. Makoto didn’t take the fucking gun.

Laurent gave him a quizzical look. “What, too much?” 

“Yes,” hissed Makoto. “I thought this was a low-level con.”

“Can never be too careful,” said Laurent, his favorite thing to say. “It adds to our aesthetic.”

Makoto started to retort, sharp and irritated, when Barry pulled himself out of a purple Mustang at the other side of the alleyway. The sun was turning everything around them into heat waves. “Well, let’s get this done, shall we?” There was a giant truck behind him. Makoto didn’t want to think about what was in it. He took the gun, quickly. 

“Of course,” said Laurent amiably. “I’ve got the cash right here.” He clapped the outside of briefcase with his hands, Cynthia and Abby leaning up against their yellow sports car, faces serious. 

“You know,” said Barry, after pats on the back and smiles, “I figured out where I knew your name from.” He was staring at Makoto. Makoto noticed a gun in his pocket, too- they were the same, weren’t they? They were both the same, in the end. He took a step back.

“Oh?” Laurent said. Makoto saw him blink too quickly to really be that calm.

“Your father,” said Barry, rolling the words around in his mouth. “We used to work together.” Barry’s men were hovering too close, Makoto didn’t like this, he wanted to go-

Laurent tried to interrupt, but Barry kept going, obviously enjoying the stage, the way he could say it all, just like this. “And you know what he did?” Laurent took a step toward him, but Barry was pretty close to Makoto. He smelled vaguely of tobacco. Makoto, insanely, wanted to laugh. 

“What,” said Makoto, scathing and a pitch lower than usual. He wanted, he wanted-

“He fucked me over. Lost us a couple million dollars.” Barry had his hands in his jeans like a cowboy. “Isn’t that a funny coincidence?”

“Hilarious,” said Makoto, pulling out the gun and pushing it against Barry’s head.

“Surely this is just a misunderstanding,” said Laurent, nervous, and wasn’t that great, wasn’t that amazing. Abby and Cynthia seemed unsure of what to do. Makoto smiled at them, very annoyed, all at once.

“Nah,” continued Makoto, putting on a mocking, twin accent for the hell of it, “you’re going to give us that truck, and then we’re going to part ways, all right?” 

There was silence; Makoto clicked the gun ready. “I’m not joking around here.” Barry swallowed and waved at the truck driver to get out. Abby went and took the steering wheel, revving it up. Makoto looked at Barry. “You have your money, we have what we bought with it. Go on. Leave.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” said Barry, struggling against him. Laurent gracefully took out a gun from his pocket, waved it at him politely.

“No, you’re not,” Makoto said, Laurent still watching, laser-focused. “You’re going to jail, just like my fucking father,” he said, this time in Japanese, voice not wavering a bit. 

“Speak in English,” said a man next to him, everyone watching Abby drive the truck away. Makoto barked out a laugh. 

“You think you can just lie your way through life,” said Makoto. “You think you’re a winner, but that’s not your decision to make.”

“Makoto-“ started Laurent, and Makoto shook his head at him. He knew that the rest of their team was on their way, that they had to go, but he just had to, he had to say something-

“There aren’t God-given winners and losers.” Makoto thought of the janitor, wiping away at the floors of that hospital.

“What are you saying?” Barry was getting impatient.

“You’re a piece of shit,” said Makoto to Barry. It felt like the end of it. “So was my father.”

Barry looked away from him, sighing. His men were exchanging glances.

Makoto pulled the trigger, and for a moment everyone held their breath. Laurent was pulling him away by the arm, running for their car before they even started yelling. There weren’t any bullets in the gun. Makoto had known this, had known it since Laurent had handed it to him. 

They played his favorite song on the radio, on the drive out of town.

—

“All’s well that ends well,” said Cynthia, waving her glass of wine around. “Certainly not our craziest con, right?”

“Sure,” said Abby, raising an eyebrow at Laurent, who was drinking fancy wine in the corner of Cynthia’s beach house and not speaking to anyone. Nobody really wanted to talk about the details of the last few hours of the con. That was all right with Makoto. The people Barry had sold to them were safe, free; that was what mattered.

He toyed with the ring on his finger, watching the afternoon sun crawl down the sky. Here, too, the heat was unbearable, but he settled into it, imagining his night on a hammock, probably getting bitten by bugs. He wondered if Laurent would approach him, then.

“Well, it’s nice to have a victory party again, at the very least,” said Cynthia. “The beaches here are much nicer, right?” She nudged at Abby, who blew her a raspberry. They seemed... more in sync. Makoto didn't pry.

Makoto went out to stare at the sunset. Things were circular- that first time, he’d come out here, too, and Laurent had said he’d wait for him. Makoto couldn’t imagine ever doing that for anyone. Laurent was willing to give him so much, for some fucking reason.

And he’d told him he wanted to return the rings. Makoto put his head in his hands.

“Edamame,” said Laurent, whirling past him and raining money over his head with his hands as a hello. 

Makoto watched him pick it up, after. “Was that really necessary.”

“I like a beautiful moment,” laughed Laurent, who then seemed to remember himself. “I can leave you alone, if you’d like.”

“No,” said Makoto, too quickly. He blushed when Laurent smiled, amused. “You can- you can do whatever you want.”

“Well then,” said Laurent. He sat down. His gaze caught on Makoto’s hand, on the ring on his finger. Makoto twitched.

“We don’t have to return it,” he said, just as Laurent started to say, “One of my stupider ideas, admittedly,” and they both looked at each other, flustered and off.

“Oh,” said Makoto when Laurent refused to repeat himself. “It _was_ stupid. I want to be clear. Please say that again.”

“Sorry about… the incident,” said Laurent, not looking super sorry. It was something, though. “You won’t believe me but most of that wasn’t intentional.”

Makoto huffed, digging his fingers into the sand. His nice pants were going to get all dirty. “The marriage part was, though, huh.” It wasn’t exactly forgiveness, Laurent wasn’t the one Makoto had to _forgive,_ in the end, but he seemed pleased anyway.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Laurent replied airily. Makoto threw sand at him.

“Ugh, stop, this shirt is new,” said Laurent, chuckling in his mature way, Makoto hating it, despising it, his lips twitching up. “You seem to have this goal to ruin all the clothes I own.”

“You’ve found me out,” said Makoto. “My plan is fucked.”

They watched the waves kiss the sun and then watched the sun blush, turning the sky pink and red and orange. Makoto turned to Laurent again. “No, but really, we don’t _have_ to return them, but if we ever get truly married, we’re getting much nicer ones. That _I_ can help pick out.”

Laurent opened his mouth and closed it and then opened it again. “You just don’t have taste. I can’t trust you to do that.”

“Oh, whatever,” said Makoto, waving at him. “Yellow fucking car.”

“Hey, now,” said Laurent. “That was part of my _character-“_

“Yes, yes, you’re a mastermind. Now look at me.” Makoto turned his diamond ring around in his hand, blood pounding.

“What, dearest?” Laurent said, always trying to act so _cool._

“Why do you like me?”

Laurent squinted at him. “Hm?”

“I mean,” Makoto flailed around with his words, “why did you wait for so long? For two years? And then some?”

Laurent took a long time to answer, staring at the ocean in silence. Makoto let him take his time. He hoped he wouldn’t just get up and walk away or something.

“I thought you were cute,” said Laurent, at last.

“Huh?” said Makoto. “Take this seriously.”

“I am!” Laurent turned to him again with a laugh. “I just- I don’t know, how am I supposed to explain love?”

“I thought you would love the opportunity to tell me outright,” said Makoto, frowning. “I thought you were the poetic type.”

“Well, sure, you’re wonderful, and you excite me, you never stop surprising me, you know that? And you’re genuinely a good person, you’re beautiful, intelligent, my equal, et cetera, et cetera,” Laurent reared his head back to really laugh, now. Makoto liked it when he did that. “But I just, well, you followed me all the way to Los Angeles. To get back a _wallet._ I love a man who’s dedicated.”

“I’m going to get the truth out of you,” said Makoto, after he had thrown some more sand at him.

“That _is_ the truth,” said Laurent, serenely getting up and taking off his shoes. “Walk with me, Edamame.”

“If we actually get married,” Makoto said, taking off his, too, to go and kick water at Laurent’s trousers, all neatly rolled up, “you’re going to have to stop calling me that. It sucks.”

“Oh, never,” said Laurent, laughing even as he got all wet. “Marriage involves compromise, Makoto! You’ll have to let me have this one. Then you can pick out our rings, yes?” Makoto kissed him, then. 


End file.
